


you're the only shoe that fits

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Clothed Sex, Drinking, Established Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gay Disaster Mila Babicheva, Humor, Lesbian Sex, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Overhearing Sex, petty revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23132044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: Moving off-campus was supposed to give Mila aquieterplace to study. That's why it was worth it, even if it meant living with the TA she'd had a crush on in freshman year. What she couldn't have anticipated was that she'd wind up sharing a bedroom wall with a couple of marathon sex addicts. So much for her peaceful, mature environment!They say revenge is a dish best served hot and steamy.That is what they say, isn't it? Oh no.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino
Comments: 30
Kudos: 95





	you're the only shoe that fits

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from the lyrics of "Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover" by Sophie B Hawkins because the way I decide how to title MilaSara fic apparently consists of "Googling the phrase 'songs for lesbians.'"
> 
> What else? 
> 
> This is my first time writing, not merely wlw porn, but porn that involves _a woman_ , just in general. Exciting.
> 
> Mila is left-handed in this. It comes up a few times. Idk why that might bother you, but it's a headcanon not canon so I'm warning for it.

Twenty pages into _Lysistrata_ , Mila is smirking at the text but relaxed, reclined on her bed in the soft embrace of a pair of body pillows propped against the wall. A thread of cold March air creeps through the gap in her bedroom window, propped open just enough to give her an excuse to bundle up tighter in the goose down comforter. It’s a thousand times cozier than the library would be so close to midterms, most of its hard-backed chairs already housing weeping, sleeping, desperate students. Mila’s lucky to be out of the campus housing and party neighborhoods, in a quiet building where she can study without running into a tour group of prospective first years or a swarm of drunk boys with no shirts on.

A door slams, and Mila jumps. “Oh no,” she groans to herself. “Please, not again--”

Silence on the other side of her bedroom wall, but Mila knows better than to allow herself hope. It always takes a few minutes before they start. She tries to refocus herself on the page before her, highlighter at the ready, but she’s distracted, tense, waiting. Her pen hovers over the page as she reads the same line three times, trying to force it into some semblance of sense. 

There’s a creak from the other side of the wall, and Mila flinches. A giggle, and then--yep, that’s a moan. The bed in the other apartment groans again, and the headboard thumps into the wall. She can never hear what the voices are actually saying clearly--thank god--just the low rumble of men speaking. At least, unless it’s one of the screaming days. 

The screaming days are the only reason she knows one of the neighbors is called Victor, except that she only ever hears it said like, “Victor, _Victor_ , Vic-- AH!” 

Aside from one of their names, all she knows about the neighbors is this: they have sex, like, all the time. And neither of them is quiet about it. They wake her up early in the morning on weekends and keep her awake late at night when she’s trying to rest before exams. They interrupt her study time and make things awkward when she has friends over, and since she doesn’t actually know either of them, she can hardly knock on the door and ask them to keep it down. Besides, that option would be even more mortifying than living this way.

It’s hard to believe she once thought that moving off-campus would mean living somewhere _quieter_.

Another moan echoes through the paper goddamn wall, and Mila closes her book with a snap. It’s all downhill from here.

Bundling her book and laptop up in her arms, she flees to the living room before things can get wild. Curled up on their aubergine loveseat with her bare feet tucked beneath her, Sara glances up from the stack of essays she’s grading at Mila’s sudden entrance. She’s smiling at first, and the sight makes Mila want to bite her lip. 

Her roommate is unfairly gorgeous.

If not for the neighbors, _this_ would be Mila’s biggest complaint about living here--Sara is just too damn pretty, and it’s distracting as hell every time Mila comes around a corner and bumps into her unexpectedly. She keeps thinking she’ll get used to it over time, but no, every time Sara walks into a room, Mila turns back into a jittery freshman staring up wide-eyed at the elegant, dark-haired senior girl TAing her Intro to Nutrition class. She’s leaned to squash that instinct some in the past year, but not entirely. Every time she learns something bad about Sara, like her creepy twin brother or her tendency to put half-eaten yogurt back in the fridge, it’s canceled out by her rising awareness that Sara is also clever and sassy and tans to the color of Mila’s favorite caramel with no effort in the summer.

Sara’s smile falls away at the look on Mila’s face, and she sets her red pen down on the coffee table, straightening up. “Hey, is something wrong? I thought you were studying.”

“They’re at it again,” Mila groans. She lets her book fall onto the table with a thunk and then joins Sara on the couch, slumping into the cushions in a way that would give her old ballet teacher fits for days.

“ _Really_? But it’s only--” Sara breaks off to pick up her phone, glancing at the screen. “It’s 1:45 in the afternoon!”

“I know!” Mila grabs a throw pillow and lets her head fall back to crack against the armrest, which always looks more plush to her than it really is. She pulls the pillow over her face, muffling a scream. 

“Maybe it will be a quickie,” Sara says, and Mila nearly jumps out of her skin when she feels Sara’s hand settle on her knee in what’s meant to be comfort. 

She pulls the pillow away from her mouth. “It’s _never_ a quickie.” Mila must have really fucked up in a past life. She hasn’t been able to tolerate any of her own attempts at dating since she and Sara moved in here, and not only does she have to listen to her neighbors fuck almost every day, but they’re clearly _good_ at it. If the universe were kinder to her, they’d be a couple of two-pump chumps who kept the rhythmic banging to under three minutes, but no. It’s a fucking marathon next door--literally. She has yet to hear them go less than an hour.

Sara pats her knee. It’s very nice. When her hand lingers, the warmth of her palm quickly seeps through the thin lycra leggings Mila has on, and Mila allows her imagination to unfurl, daydreaming of the trail of warmth that might come if Sara moved that hand down, toward her thigh, or maybe--

Damn. The horny neighbors are getting to her.

“I have an idea,” Sara says, and Mila presses the pillow hard into her face again, waiting for the tingling in her limbs to calm itself before she tries to make human sounds.

She pulls the pillow up from just her mouth, then slides it up, hoping the flush on her cheeks will be wiped away with it--or at least won’t seem out of place. Sara is sporting a crooked little smile that looks downright rakish. It’s out of the ordinary, but it’s a good look on her. 

The smile widens when she sees Mila watching. “What if we got… revenge.”

Oh no. Evil Sara is even hotter than regular Sara. Mila is intrigued. “What kind of revenge?”

“Well,” Sara says slowly, “what’s that old saying? ‘Turnabout is fair play’?”

Mila’s heart must stop for a full minute. When it starts again, it’s going doubletime. Sara can’t actually be suggesting-- “You don’t mean… _we_ should--?”

“No no!” Damn. Mila’s heart turns to lead and drops into her feet. Sara’s cheeks pink at the idea, and Mila feels herself bounce back a little. “I mean, not _literally_ or anything.”

They really need to be clear here, before Mila combusts over nothing. “What--exactly--are you thinking?”

The smile is back, now accompanied by the same pink roses in Sara’s cheeks and a twinkle in her big violet eyes. Slap some wings on her back and she’d pass as a mischievous little fairy in a storybook--Tinkerbelle, her whole body filled with only one terrific emotion at a time. “Well, we could pretend, right? We go in, jump on the bed, make a little noise and stuff. If we put on some music, it’s basically a dance party, but on your mattress.”

Mila is _so_ down for a mattress tango right now. She mentally slaps herself. If they do this, she’s going to need a cold shower after. 

Sara is still watching her, hands clasped in her lap. Her fingernails are painted a fine, deep shade of dusky rose. Mila prefers brighter colors, but on Sara it looks wonderful. 

“Sure,” Mila says, throwing her hands up. “Why not? It can’t possibly make things any worse.”

Later--days later--she’ll remember why she normally avoids saying things like that. 

When Mila pokes her head back into the bedroom, the sounds are still happening, so she returns to the common area. She fixes herself half a sandwich and shares the second half with Sara, then does her daily sign-ins for all her phone games. When she checks again, the noise level has only increased.

“They have to be finishing soon,” Sara says, frowning faintly. Mila shrugs. It seems like it, but there have been freak days where her bedroom wall plays a marathon with more episodes than _Law & Order_.

Sara’s given up waiting and gone back to grading papers by the time Mila checks the room a third time, a mug of freshly-brewed tea cupped in her hands. It’s quiet now, aside from a low rumble of male voices--normal speaking volume, thank god. The banging has stopped. It’s pillow talk hour.

Mila sets her tea down on her desk, aligning the bottom so this ring will overlap all the others artistically. “They’ve stopped,” she hisses into the living room, and Sara immediately tosses her pen and papers onto the coffee table and pops onto her feet, rushing to join Mila at the bedroom door.

Before Mila can say anything more, Sara hurtles past her, throwing herself bodily onto Mila’s unmade bed. Mila glances around at the disheveled sheets and clean clothes piled on her floor. There are three half-empty cups of room-temperature tea and water already stacked on her bedside table. Maybe she should have tidied before letting Sara see how she lives.

Now that Sara’s actually on her bed, there’s not much Mila can do, and shock stabs her chest as it sinks in that Sara wasn’t joking. “Are we really doing this?”

“Of course.” Sara bounces on the bed a little and grins. “Don’t you want to?”

“Yes,” Mila says quickly. “I mean, of course. They deserve it.” Butterflies are rioting in her stomach. It’s _stupid_ and she knows it, but somehow she’s nervous at the thought of even _pretending_ to sleep with Sara. What if she messes up somehow, and Sara thinks she’s actually bad at sex--or worse, inexperienced?

“All right,” Sara cheers, patting the bed next to her. “Hop on and let’s start this party--quick, before they leave the bedroom.”

Pushing her worries aside, Mila joins her, and they both kneel up by the headboard. Sara throws Mila a grin, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief, as she plants both hands on the wall. “Ready?”

Mirroring her, Mila nods, and they both start jumping. The bedsprings squeak and groan beneath them, but the rhythm is out of whack. Mila pauses to pay attention, then starts back up in sync with Sara, who is rocking back and forth as she bounces, clearly trying to knock the headboard into the wall.

It’s too secure, so instead Sara slaps the wall. “Oh!” she yells. “Oh, oh, oh _yes_!” Despite her enthusiasm, her cheeks are pink, but Mila’s must be worse. She feels like her whole face must be as red as her hair, but--

“AH!” Mila shouts, then muffles a giggle into her bicep. Her voice is still choked with laughter as she tries again. “Yes, like that! Harder!” 

Sara slams her fist into the wall and wails like an air raid siren, then ruins the effect by snorting loudly. 

A Dance major whose first word as a baby was “plie”, Mila is no slouch in the athletic department. She’s in pretty good shape. She works out almost daily, class or no class, and she knows Sara does too. Still, all this bouncing and yelling is leaving her out of breath and gasping. 

“Mila,” Sara gasps, and Mila turns to look, thinking her roommate needs something, but Sara’s eyes are still focused on the whitewashed wall ahead. Her cheeks are rosy, and her night-dark hair is all a tangle, flying around her and sticking to her neck where she’s beginning to sweat from the effort. “Mila,” she repeats, but this time it’s a low moan, and her intent is unmistakable. “ _Yes_. Oh god, _Mila_ , just like that--”

 _Fuck_. Mila wasn’t expecting this, and the sound of her name on Sara’s lips in that tone leaves her more than a little hot under the collar. She’s torn, wanting to hear more, to store these memories up and keep them for a cold, lonely night. At the same time, she knows it wouldn’t be right. She can’t fantasize about her roommate like that--at least, not more than she already does.

Instead, Mila slams her hand into the wall harder. “Yes!” she screams, drowning out Sara’s words. “Yes, yes, yes, yes--!” From there she dissolves into a long crescendo of a moan, a rollercoaster of sound with deep valleys and high peaks. She keeps bouncing through it, but picks up her phone and opens the timer function, watching as the seconds tick by. 

Twenty seconds. 

Thirty seconds. 

Next to her, Sara is losing it, her head buried in both arms as her shoulders shake with muffled laughter, and Mila continues to cultivate the world’s longest, weirdest fake orgasm. When the timer finally hits ninety seconds, she trails off on a gasp and stops moving her hips, letting the creak of the bed stop as well.

At once, they both lean in to press their ears to the wall, waiting to see if there’s any reaction from the other side. Sara’s face is inches away, a smile still lingering on her dusky rose lips. There’s a flyaway strand of hair sticking to her forehead as she holds her breath, closing her eyes in concentration. 

_Does she smile like this when she sleeps?_ Mila wonders. As if she heard the words, Sara’s eyes fly open and her face brightens.

“We did it,” she declares.

“What?”

“Don’t you hear it?”

Mila strains her senses, but she doesn’t hear anything.

She doesn’t… hear anything. Silence. The neighbors have _left_ the bedroom.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, and her smile matches Sara’s own. “It really worked!” They’ve done it. They won.

-

Mila sleeps the sleep of the Just that night. There’s no moaning and thumping to interrupt her, and she’s cozy and warm. Wrapped tight in a blanket of sweet victory, she feels rested when her alarm goes off at seven. As a second-year, she knows better than to schedule herself for any classes before ten in the morning, but the gym calls. 

She rolls out of bed, stretches until every muscle in her body feels pulled tight, and pads into the bathroom to shower and get ready for the day. As she washes her face and dots on her moisturizer, she catches herself humming bits of an old t.A.T.u. song and grins at her reflection. It’s going to be a _good_ day. Mila doesn’t expect that yesterday’s shenanigans will stop the neighbors forever, but at least she can get a brief respite to study for midterms. After that, they can go back to fucking like bunnies until finals roll around as far as she’s concerned. She can sleep on the sofa if she must.

Outfitted in her favorite stretchy yoga pants and a purple racerback tank that says _Good Girls Go Bad_ , Mila pulls her hair up into a half-pony as she nudges her bedroom door open with her hip. The living room is silent, as it usually is in the morning. Sara has office hours in the graduate assistant office starting at 8:30, which Mila thinks is ungodly early for work, but given how rarely students actually show up, it apparently doesn’t matter what time she holds them. 

She’s still humming to herself as she tosses her books into her backpack for the day, along with a granola bar and a string cheese. She dances to the little tune racing through her head, swaying her hips. Peering into the fridge in search of a quickie breakfast, she grabs a banana, but keeps that in her hand. It’ll just get mushy and bruised if she puts it in the bag, even if she’s careful.

With everything ready for her day on campus, Mila shoulders her backpack and slips into her flipflops on the mat beside the door. She steps outside with her keys in one hand and her banana in the other. Breaking the peel open, she takes a bite, then juggles her keys into the lock as she chews. 

To her right, the neighbor’s door creaks open. Mila freezes. Her humming stops. She’s never actually _seen_ them before. 

Her deadbolt is already engaged, but she holds onto the key and pretends she’s still locking up as she tries to catch a sneaky peak of who the horny neighbors really are.

Mila’s grandmother had sworn, on her deathbed, that she was a very famous and successful spy in the 1950’s. If that were the case--which Mila doubts--then Mila clearly did not inherit anything from her aside from the red hair. The neighbor makes her _immediately_.

“Good morning,” he says, grinning wide and sounding entirely too awake for _any_ time before noon. Mila takes him in for a beat--tall and slim, with bright blue eyes half-covered by a fall of silver hair. He’d be considered attractive, were she into that sort of thing. He’s in a pale blue dress shirt that’s rolled to his elbows, pressed grey pants, and the shiniest shoes Mila has ever seen that didn’t involve glitter or rhinestones. Given the attire, Mila’s assuming he’s _not_ a student. 

That’s a little surprising. 

He’s still looking at her, waiting, so she mumbles her own “good morning”. 

“I don’t believe we’ve actually met.” He offers her his hand with a winning smile. “I’m Victor.”

Ah, yes. The name kicks her in the crotch with memories of the tone she _usually_ hears it in, and she can only hope she’s not blushing as badly as she thinks she is. 

Juggling her banana into the other hand with the keys, she reaches out to take Victor’s hand and shake it. “Mila,” she says. “Nice to finally meet you.” _As if I needed a face to put with the weird sex noises._

“Mila,” Victor repeats. He squeezes her hand for a millisecond, then loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. His head tilts like a curious puppy, revealing the eye that was previously hidden by his bangs. “Would you like to come over for dinner some time?”

God knows what her face looks like at that question. She _knows_ the man is in a relationship. Is he seriously trying to ask her out?

There must be more to him than good looks--that, or Mila’s shock is _really_ showing--because he rushes to explain, never missing a beat with his smile. “Of course, we want to invite your girlfriend too! Most of our old group graduated and moved away now, so it would be great to have ‘couple friends’ living so close.”

Oh. Shit. There’s a “she’s not my girlfriend” on the tip of Mila’s tongue, a disclaimer she’s already too accustomed to making, but she can’t exactly say that to Victor, can she? Victor just heard the two of them “having sex.” He has every reason to believe Sara is her girlfriend.

Mila scrambles for some other escape route. “I really appreciate that, but you know, we’re both students, and it’s midterms week, so--”

“Of course!” Victor releases her hand and swipes at the air, dusting away her protest. “We’ll be busy as well, but perhaps after that? It would nice to relax after all the fuss of exams with a good meal, don’t you think? My Yuuri is a wonderful cook.”

Damn. He’s cut her off at the pass. Slumping, Mila capitulates. “Yes,” she admits, “that does sound nice.”

“Wonderful! How about next Tuesday, then, at seven? We’ll take care of dinner, just bring hors d'oeuvres and perhaps wine?” 

Mute, Mila nods and hopes that Sara isn’t too pissed when she finds out what Mila signed them up for.

-

Sara’s not angry at all, which might be worse. When Mila meets up with her on campus, grabbing a quick lunch at the dining hall between class and a group study session, Sara only listens intently as Mila spills out the whole story between bites of french fry dipped in milkshake. 

When the tale is out, Sara _smiles_. “Oh, good,” she says. “Now we’ll finally get to meet them! You know, their apartment is a mirror of ours.” She taps one elegant, rose-colored nail on her chin. “I wonder how they’ve arranged their furniture, especially with that one wall that’s sort of slanted.”

“Are you serious right now?” Mila gapes. 

“What?” Sara takes a long sip of her smoothie, then points the tip of her reusable straw at Mila. “I’ve been really curious about them. I mean, aside from the sex life stuff, which I know too much about already. I’ve tried to say hello a few times, but the older one always seems to be busy and preoccupied, and I think the younger one is kind of shy. He always looks like I’m about to lunge at him. They do have a super cute dog, though.”

“You’re not upset that they think you’re my girlfriend?” Maybe asking that question is too revealing, but Mila desperately needs the answer.

Sara hums, pursing her lips, and taps out a staccato beat on the faux-wood table top. “I can see why that might worry you,” she says, and Mila’s heart dips. “Obviously, I’m never going to kiss anyone who eats garbage like _that_.” 

Mila follows Sara’s violet gaze down to the limp french fry dangling from her own fingers, melted brown milkshake dripping sadly from the tip. “What?” she says, popping the fry into her mouth. “It tastes good. Don’t you study flavor in _Foods_ and Nutrition courses?” 

Sara only shakes her head, the carriage of her shoulders indicating that she believes Mila too far gone to save. 

“We should probably tell them the truth,” Mila says, “and decline the invitation. It wouldn’t feel right to lie to them like that. What if we wind up living next to them for two more years? Are we going to keep lying until we both graduate?”

“Counterpoint,” Sara says. “Free food.”

Damn. That’s a good counterpoint. Mila is a college student, after all. “You know, two years isn’t so bad. I lied to my parents that I was in honor society all through high school.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sara says with a grin, and Mila grins back. At least they’re on the same page. How bad can it be?

-

The answer is, of course, very bad.

It starts from the very moment they knock on the door. There’s a soft _bork_ from the other side, then the sound of someone shushing the borker, and then the door swings open. Standing in the doorway, bright and beaming, is Victor. Tucked into his side, with dark hair in disarray, wild brown eyes, and a stained apron over his athleisure wear, is what must be the man Mila usually hears moaning Victor’s name. 

They quickly make introductions-- _Yuuri, right. I think Victor said it before, in the hallway_ \-- and Sara shakes hands with both of them. When Mila goes to do the same, there is a brief but noticeable pause. Mila is left-handed, and that means Victor has to change hands. 

Instead, he hesitates, then steps back to make way for them to pass by. “Ah, but we met already, Mila! Won’t you come in?” And that’s when Mila realizes why he won’t take her hand. 

Because his right hand is currently resting somewhere behind Yuuri’s back-- _low_ on Yuuri’s back--and she knows there’s no chance those spandex yoga pants Yuuri’s wearing have rear pockets. 

She had put Yuuri’s flush down to the heat of the kitchen before, but now she has new suspicions. 

That’s merely the first volley in what becomes a near-constant trend: Victor’s arm on Yuuri’s waist in the kitchen, Yuuri reaching for Victor with one hand even as he stirs a pot with the other, and so on. Victor swoops in for kisses--Mila counts it--seven times in the twenty minutes the food is cooking, and what concerns her most about that is that Sara doesn’t even seem to notice what’s happening, too wrapped up in small talk and squishing the enormous, fluffy face of the couple’s poodle.

When Yuuri announces the food is ready, Mila grabs Sara’s wrist. “Come on,” she says, pulling Sara from the kitchen. “We should really _wash up_ , don’t you think?” 

She tugs Sara, spluttering protests, down the short hallway with her and shuts the bathroom door firmly once they’re both inside. She locks the door. 

“Okay, very intense,” Sara says, “but I need to pee so you might want to wait your turn to wash your hands.”

“You can pee after,” Mila whispers. “We need to talk first. Is it just me, or are those two _super_ handsy?”

Sara pauses to consider, which is enough for Mila to consider shaking her. How could she not see it immediately? “Yeah,” Sara agrees at last. “They’re pretty serious about the PDA, I guess. Is it bothering you? I think it’s kind of cute.” She smiles, cheeks flushing a little, and Mila might blame the lighting for the sparkle in her violet eyes, but they’re in a _bathroom_.

 _You’re kind of cute_ , Mila thinks, but she doesn’t let the words traipse past her lips. “It doesn’t bother me,” she snips. “It’s just… are they going to think we’re weird?”

Sara pauses at that, pursing her lips. “What do you mean, ‘weird’?”

“I mean, if we’re not like that. We’re supposed to be a couple too, but--” Mila cuts herself off, too flustered to say what she’s thinking, _We don’t touch each other enough_.

Part of the problem is that’s not true. At home, in the quietude of their apartment, they’re far from shy with one another. Sara’s been known to lay her head on Mila’s lap to watch a movie, or sit by her side, bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee, even though there’s a whole sofa to choose from when she sits. It had startled Mila when she first moved in, used to spending time alone, but then Sara was rarely alone--she was a twin. So Mila chalked it up to twin stuff, something she’d never understand as an only child, and figured it meant Sara saw her as a sort of sister. 

There’s a big difference between that sort of touching and the kissing, nuzzling, butt-grabbing stuff Victor and Yuuri are getting up to in the kitchen. 

Sara makes a little noise, eyes lighting up with understanding. “Oh, you’re right! Here.” She leans in, and Mila freezes, startled.

She wakes up quickly when she feels Sara’s teeth on her neck.

Flailing, Mila backs away until she hits the bathroom door with a thud. “Sara, what the fuck?” she gasps, reaching for her neck. There’s no blood on her hand when she pulls it back--a good start, but then she has to push back past Sara in the little room, angling for a look in the mirror.

There’s a pink smudge on her skin from Sara’s lipstick, but nothing serious. “What?” Sara pouts. “We’ve been in here forever already. If you came out with a hickey, they’d understand why _and_ believe that we’re a couple.”

“I meant we should _hold hands_ or something, not _suck face_ ,” Mila exclaims, right before her own words--and the images that go with him--manage to hit her. _Suck face_ , oh god, and her overactive imagination is right there with her, throwing up visions of Sara leaning in, dark lashes curtaining sparkling violet eyes, her pink lips pursed and ready--

“Oh. That’s a good idea too.” Sara’s fingers twine in Mila’s belt loops, tugging. “Holding hands, and stuff like this?” Mila nods. “Should we kiss, too, or maybe I could--” She reaches out, tucking a strand of red behind Mila’s ear, her fingertips lingering warm and gentle at the hinge of her jaw.

Mila’s chest aches. She sucks in a breath, realizing she’s forgotten. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, that’s-- That’s great. Couple stuff.”

“I can do couple stuff,” Sara promises, with a dazzling quirk of a smile. She’s still so close, and the bathroom is so cramped. The hard curve of the sink digs into the small of Mila’s back when she tries to make some space. Victor and Yuuri’s shower curtain is splotched with pink, blue, and violet paint. In front of it, Sara looks like a goddess from an artist’s canvas made flesh, stepping out of the painting to reach for Mila’s hand.

Mila fumbles for the door knob and finally paws it open. “Okay, great. Great. Plan accepted. Now, let’s get back out there before they come looking for us.” She holds the door open, gesturing for Sara to go ahead of her. 

“They wouldn’t do that,” Sara scoffs on her way out. In the doorway, she pauses to flash Mila a smile. “They’d just assume you were having your way with me bent over that sink.”

Mila covers her face with both hands, sure her cheeks must match her hair at the moment, but it doesn’t slow Sara down. She just loops her arm through Mila’s so they’re linked and pulls her back out to the living area. “Sorry for the delay,” she says with a giggle. “We got a little distracted back there.”

Victor is smiling, _winking_ at them. “Believe me,” he says. “I completely understand.” It’s notable, then, that Yuuri is still in the kitchen, his back turned resolutely toward his guests. Suddenly, Mila is struck by a flash of great sympathy for him. They’re comrades in arms, both beset by gremlins.

Then, she remembers that it’s Yuuri’s ridiculously loud sex noises that got her in this mess to begin with. _I know your secrets_ , she thinks at him fiercely, but he keeps stirring the spaghetti sauce, undeterred. 

The PDA parade makes its way to the table, and the dog curls up beneath the table to wait for crumbs. Even while carrying a bowl of hot pasta, Victor manages to have one arm around Yuuri’s waist. When they sit down, Yuuri’s hand comes to rest on top of Victor’s on the table. Spite drives Mila over the final hurdle of nerves, and she grabs Sara’s hand in her own, mirroring the happy couple.

“Guests first,” Yuuri says, nodding to the food to indicate they should serve themselves.

Mila and Sara both reach for the garlic knots at once, fingers of their free hands brushing, and Mila tries to restrain herself from blushing. They’re already holding hands, after all, but somehow that accidental contact is overwhelming.

It quickly becomes clear that Sara and Mila are, actually, the superior couple. Mila’s leftie status means she can keep holding Sara’s hand as they serve themselves and eat, her right hand clasped onto Sara’s left atop the round chestnut table. Victor and Yuuri are forced, at last, to disconnect once dinner starts--though that doesn’t stop them from making eyes at one another.

The spaghetti is good and the small talk stilted. Mila bites her lip, holding in her bubbling opinions on how insipid it is to chat about something like the weather when both of their apartments have windows. 

“So, Victor,” Sara asks, twirling her pasta into her spoon in a tornado of red, “are you a doctoral student, then?”

Victor laughs lightly and tosses his silver bangs back from his eyes. “I appreciate the compliment, but my dissertation days are long passed now. I’m an adjunct in the International Studies department. And before you ask, no, Yuuri was _not_ my student.” They glance at each other again, small private smiles turning up the corners of their mouths. “I was still finishing up my PhD when I bumped into Yuuri in the library and recognized him from a play I’d seen the previous semester.”

“Oh, are you an actor?” Sara smiles at Yuuri, encouraging, but he shakes his head.

Still making eye contact with his dinner, he confesses, “I’m in the middle of an MBA right now, but in undergrad I double majored--Business and Dance.”

“ _Dance_?” Mila gapes. Her brain shuffles into high gear, searching for a puzzle piece she didn’t know was missing. At last, she seizes it. “Wait, Yuuri _Katsuki_? Madam Baranovskaya’s Yuuri?”

Yuuri flushes from his throat to the tips of his ears as he groans. “She doesn’t still talk about me, does she?”

“Only like, every class,” Mila says, rolling her eyes. She mimics the professor’s haughty glare and thick accent as she begins to quote. “ _Mr. Katsuki used to have the most elegant plie. Mr. Katsuki would never fall out of a turn in such a way, Miss Babicheva. Mr. Katsuki floats on air and senses the beat with his **soul** , Miss Babicheva._”

Groaning even louder, Yuuri shoves his food away and falls forward, head buried in his arms on the table like a modern ostrich. 

Victor pats him on the back, then begins a one-handed shoulder rub. “See, I told you she liked you.”

“Oh no,” Mila and Yuuri both say simultaneously. “That’s worse.”

Once Yuuri’s recovered from his shock, they get back onto the relatively safe topic of gossiping about past dance instructors--at least until Sara finds out that Victor’s dissertation was on the subject of traditional diets from various cultures around the world. 

“No _way_ ,” she says, slapping the table. “I’m Foods and Nutrition! I _need_ to pick your brain!”

By that time the garlic knots have all been eaten, and the spaghetti is nothing but a few lonely, fat worms curled on a red background at the bottom of Mila’s bowl. She helps Yuuri gather the dishes since the other two are six feet deep in a conversation about _quinoa_ , and when she returns to the living area, she finds that Victor and Sara have adjoined to the couch--with, she notices, a third glass of wine each. 

She herself had kept to a single glass with dinner, and she noticed Yuuri had as well. She considers reminding Sara to watch herself, but then remembers that they live next door. It’s not like she has far to go before passing out. 

“You know,” Yuuri says suddenly, “I was in Lilia’s class when she left her husband.”

“Madam Baranovskaya was _married_?” Mila tries to imagine it. She can’t. She always thought the aging prima was too independent to have a serious relationship. At best, she’d pictured Baranovskaya as the sort of “old maid” who might be found, after her death, to have been living with a “sister” or a gal pal for over a decade. The thought of Baranovskaya being some man’s wife is kind of blowing her mind. 

“Yes. It was all very dramatic too.” Yuuri lowers his voice to add, in a harsh whisper, “ _Russians_ ,” with a pointed look in Victor’s direction. 

The promise of gossip laden in that statement is too juicy for Mila to pass up, and soon she and Yuuri are settling onto the living room furniture, deep in a conversation of their own as the other two continue to nerd out. 

Mila loses track of time until she notices Victor attempting to uncork another bottle of wine. The red in the bottom of Sara’s glass is nearly dry, and her face is flushed with it. Although Sara isn’t a wild drunk from what Mila’s seen, she _does_ tend to fall asleep easily, and Mila can’t carry her if she drifts off--not even the few feet to their apartment.

“It’s getting late,” Mila says, watching as Sara smiles and sways slightly, the ends of her black hair brushing the Italian flag on her t-shirt. “We should probably head home. I have practice early tomorrow.”

Fishing out her phone, Mila glances at the time and is surprised to find it is, in fact, late--closer to eleven than ten, which might not mean much to most undergrads, but Mila and Sara both need to be up and out the door by eight.

Yuuri’s face shifts, relief peeking through his friendly mask, and Mila sympathizes with him again. He’s clearly not the most outgoing, social sort. She appreciates the effort he’s put in.

They all rise from the sofas, saying their goodnights along the short walk to the front door. “We must do this again some time,” Victor pronounces with a charming smile that almost distracts Mila from how low his hand is once again slipping on Yuuri’s waist. 

“Absolutely,” she lies. Though she had more fun than she expected, she’s ready for them to move back to not-speaking status if at all possible. _Maybe_ now that they know there’s a human on the other side of the bedroom wall, they’ll be a bit more considerate.

“Oh wait!” Victor perks up, blue eyes lit up with the flash of an idea. “Sara, do you dance?”

“Of _course_.” Sara emphasizes her words with a finger to the ceiling and lists to the side in the process. Mila was absolutely right to cut her off for the night.

“Then that settles it,” Victor declares. “Next double date will have to be dancing, with two dance majors in our midst.” He leans in to wink at Sara. “We can only hope to keep up and enjoy the view, right?”

Sara giggles, then gasps, “Yes! It’s a date!”

Before she can get them signed up for any more bad ideas, Mila wraps an arm around her waist, thanking their hosts once more as she tries to drag Sara down the hall. Sara and Victor are yelling down at each other the whole time, “See you in a few weeks!” and “Don’t forget! You promised!”

After what feels like half an hour, Mila manages to drag Sara the whole six feet from the neighbors’ door to theirs and tugs her inside, shutting the door and locking it behind them. 

She turns, ready to say something like “thank god that’s over” or “thanks for talking me into that” or maybe just “goodnight”, when Sara lunges toward her, flinging her arms around Mila’s neck in a hug.

Mila freezes up at first, then relaxes as Sara leans into her, warm and soft, her breath smelling much like a barrel of merlot. 

“I had the _best_ time tonight,” she gushes. “Thank you for inviting me!”

“You were the one who talked me into going,” Mila replies, amused by Sara’s sweet, drunken earnestness. 

“Oh, true! Still. You’re the one who got us invited.” She sways closer to Mila, giggling. Her violet eyes look unfathomable in the dim light of their apartment, only one lamp lit by the couch. “Victor and Yuuri are _so_ nice, and you know what?”

“What?”

“You’re the best girlfriend.” Sara says it with an unrestrained grin.

Mila knows it’s just a joke, much like everything in the other apartment was an act, and Sara is drunk and loose-limbed, but it’s hard to resist leaning into the hug, wrapping her arms around Sara’s waist in return and pulling her in.

But they’ve just promised to do it all again in a few weeks, haven’t they? _Dancing_ , even, and that thought may as well be a bucket of ice water with the way it washes over Mila, top to toes. Instead of hold Sara close, she reaches for the arms around her shoulders and pulls them carefully away.

“Okay, drunkie,” she says. “Love you too. Now let’s get you some water so you can start sleeping it off.” 

Getting Sara ready to head off to bed makes Mila feel like the Grinch in the old cartoon--both for the act of sending Cindy Lou off with a cup, and for the fact that she’s probably ruining Sara’s fun for the night _again_ by doing it, but she’s exhausted. She’s not the sort who’s usually drained by social interactions, but there’s an extra layer baked into what they did tonight, with the stress of playing Happy Couple for the neighbors compounded by the fact that, maybe, Mila wouldn’t actually _mind_ if it was all real.

She scowls at her reflection as she wipes off her mascara and washes her face. It’s probably not good for her mental health to pretend to date the roommate she has a big ugly crush on. She’d thought this would be a one-time thing, but now it turns out they actually get along with Victor and Yuuri. Are they going to have to fake it forever, or worse, fake a breakup? 

Mila changes into a pair of soft shorts and a tank top, old workout clothes now worn too thin to be decent for practice, but more comfortable than any fancy pajamas she’d find in a store. She slips into her bed and burrows down, worming her way into the mattress and pulling the blankets up to her chin.

At least, after all that, they’d gotten through the night. The promise of another double date is a problem for _later_ Mila, and right now there’s nothing standing between her and a good night’s sleep. She switches off the lamp and lets her weary eyes fall closed.

On the other side of the wall, a door slams. Mila’s eyes fly open. She hears a gasped, “ _Victor_!” in what she now recognizes as Yuuri’s voice, immediately followed by a giggle.

Mila groans. “Seriously?” she demands of the wall. “We just left!” 

But if the neighbors can hear her half as well as she hears them, they show no sign of it. The headboard _thunk_ s against the wall, and the mattress creaks. Mila stares at the ceiling, questioning every choice on the pathways of her life that lead to this moment, and then the pattern of sound is broken by a loud moan.

 _That’s it_. Mila rolls from the bed and grabs her pillow, then bundles up her comforter in a pile on top before marching back out to the living room, the corner of her blanket trailing on the carpet beside her. 

She dumps her stuff onto the sofa and then flops down on the cushions to cocoon herself in the blanket. It’s not the most comfortable couch she’s even slept on--it came with the apartment--but she’s young and bendy and she’s had worse beds. 

Out here, at least, she can’t hear Victor and Yuuri at all, only the quiet echo of Sara’s soft snores creeping through the gap beneath her bedroom door. Mila lays on her back, watching the flash and stretch of passing headlights where they reflect on the popcorn ceiling, and wonders where she went wrong.

-e

Mila never expected she’d be grateful for exam stress, but if the university wants to pressure her into a reprieve from that double date with Victor and Yuuri, she’ll take it. It feels like she barely has time to take a breath after midterms before the flurry of finals begins, and everyone at the school gets swept up in the storm. 

One of the classes Sara is assisting with has a plagiarism scandal, and half the students are forced to redo their midterm essays, which means Sara has to grade them all over again. Victor, meanwhile, receives a notice that he needs to publish by the end of the year or risk losing his position, and he disappears almost entirely into his work. When Mila sees him in the halls, he’s little more than a wild mop of silver over a stack of books. 

She spots Yuuri in the library exactly once. He has both hands gripping his own hair by the roots, and his eyes are wild behind his glasses. Mila creeps by him without saying a word since he looks like he’s seconds away from a heart attack already.

Between frantic study sessions, she and Sara fall back into their old patterns. They curl up together on the sofa to watch TV or pop out to grab dinner when they’re both home. They have a movie night, and Sara stretches out, pillowing her head on Mila’s lap while they watch _Jupiter Ascending_. Mila finger-combs her hair, weaving little braids into the thick black strands to frame her face, and Sara rolls to lie on her back while Mila works the other side, her violet eyes slitted. Mila tries to pretend she doesn’t notice, keeping her gaze fixated on the screen, where Channing Tatum has apparently sprouted wings. If there was a moment that explained _why_ that happened, Mila missed it.

But in the space between these alternating moments of stress and silence, the semester somehow ends, and when Mila spots Sara chatting with Yuuri in the mailroom, she knows she’s run out of excuses. Their promised double date is way overdue, and unless Mila manages to catch food poisoning from her post-Finals Taco Bell binge, she’s screwed.

She’s been dancing with Sara before. There’s no chance the night is going to end without Mila being _completely_ fucked.

Because Victor still has to work late finalizing grades on Friday, they meet up on campus after dinner to walk to the bar together. When they arrive, they find Yuuri already waiting for them, arms clasped behind his back, staring up at the school’s famous statue of Apollo--famous, because he’s clad in only a loincloth that’s so tiny it could pass for a thong. The university students are fond of scaling the statue for photos and to decorate him for the holidays. At the moment, he’s wearing a beer can hat.

Yuuri turns, hearing them approach, and Mila almost stops in her tracks. She usually sees Yuuri with his head down, rushing from apartment to class, wearing his thick-framed glasses, athleisure gear, and a perpetually-startled expression. The Yuuri who greets them at the statue is almost unrecognizable. His button-down blue shirt shimmers and clings to his body, and the black jeans he’s wearing must be vacuum sealed to his thighs. There’s no questioning that Yuuri has a dancer’s body now, and his glasses are missing as well, his hair styled back from his face. 

Mila had thought Sara looked like a goddess when she emerged from her room in a fitted, low-cut red dress, her black hair spilling forward over one shoulder. Now she’s forced to recalculate--she, a mere mortal, is now standing among a whole pantheon of gods. She may have to rethink her whole sexuality. She _definitely_ needs to rethink her club clothes. 

She tugs at the black vest she threw on over her button-down. Maybe she’s looking a bit too job interview tonight, but--she’d thought it was nice, before she saw Yuuri. 

“Praying to the god of music for a half decent DJ?” Sara asks Yuuri, teasing as she sidles up to him, and Mila suppresses a flash of senseless jealousy. 

“He always reminds me of Victor,” Yuuri says, then flushes, remembering he’s comparing his fiance to a scantily-clad Greek god. “Uhh-- Forget I said that.”

“Never. I’ve read the posts about Victor’s classes on RateMyProfessor, and let me tell you--you are far from alone on this one.” Sara grins. “I distinctly remember reading the phrase ‘a profile chiseled by the gods themselves’ in there.”

Mila snorts, shaking her head. “ _English majors_ ,” she says with disgust.

“Or worse, Theater.” That’s Victor’s voice, and everyone turns to greet him. He’s coming straight from his office, wearing a basic white shirt and a blazer, but with a rainbow-striped pocket square, and Mila feels relief wash over her as he slips an arm around Yuuri’s waist. It’s a good reminder that Yuuri is very much taken--and Mila’s not the only one dressed more for work than a night out. 

It’s a short walk from campus into the bar district. Victor and Sara take the lead, falling back into their previous conversation about food and culture as if they’d begun it last night and not several weeks ago. Mila hangs back with Yuuri, but he’s quiet, more focused on the streets around them than socializing. She can’t say she minds it. They’ll be social soon enough--might as well enjoy the peace.

As they approach the bars, Victor slows down to catch Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri answers him with a smile. When something brushes Mila’s hand as well, she nearly jumps out of her skin. She glances over to see Sara’s big violet eyes. Her deep red lipstick is still perfectly in place--not even a speck on her teeth. 

“This okay?” she whispers, looking down at their entwined fingers. Mila nods. Right. Victor and Yuuri are holding hands, so they should too. It all makes perfect sense.

That doesn’t stop her heart from jackrabbiting in her chest.

Every nerve, every sense in her body is attuned to the warmth of that palm against hers as they walk down the street. She’s so focused on the sensation, she loses track of where they are or what the group is talking about--until they stop outside a bar suddenly, and Yuuri plants his feet.

“No no,” he says. “Victor, _absolutely_ not.”

Ignoring Yuuri’s folded arms, Victor drapes himself over his back, nuzzling into his fiance’s hair. “But Yuuuuuri,” he drawls. “It’s romantic! Don’t you want to revisit where we met?”

Sara takes her hand from Mila’s to cover her mouth as she smiles. “Oh,” she says, looking up at the sign above them. “You guys didn’t meet at the library, you met at _The Library_.”

The Library, a ramshackle club on the furthest side of downtown, once a dive bar hideaway for literature majors who wanted to drink Guinness while writing bad poetry, and now infamous for _two dollar test tube shots_ and _twink strip night_. 

Mila stares at Yuuri, who’s gone red from his throat to his ears. “You can’t be serious, Victor.”

“You want to drink. You want to dance.” Victor releases him and sweeps open the door to the bar, and they’re hit by a thick wave of sweet alcohol and twenty years of sweat. “Here we have plenty of each.”

“You guys probably want to go somewhere quieter, right?” Yuuri pleads with them with his eyes. 

Sara is having none of that. “Are you kidding? I’m ready to party.” She gives Yuuri a conciliatory pat on the shoulder as she sways past him. “The semester’s over. Let’s get wild!” 

She disappears, and with a shrug and a smile, Mila follows. Despite his protests, she can feel Yuuri following close behind her.

The Library smells better than it looks, which says a lot considering how many years of stale body odor and spilled drinks are layered in the air and on the floor. The stained concrete sticks to the bottom of Mila’s riding boots as she meanders through the crowd to find the bar. Not that there's much of a crowd tonight--finals ended days ago for most students, which means the celebrations have mostly passed, and the out of towners have drifted back home. There are still a couple dozen students, mostly undergrad boys, and some with Xs on their hands, but the population is skewing a little older tonight. A pair of women with close-cropped, salt and pepper hair lean back from the bar, spot Victor, and raise their pint classes. He waves back. 

Mila props herself against the bar, but the bartender is busy down the line, so she waits, skimming her eyes over the rest of the place. She’s never actually been in before, but always heard they had the best dance floor in town. Sure enough, for all the floor feels like a glue trap near the doors and seating, the dance area looks polished and almost classy--if she ignores the peeling disco ball above it and the stripper pole installed smack in the middle.

Still, it’s a wide open space with a small group already dancing, and the DJ is doing a decent job warming them up, spinning a mixture of bass-heavy dance beats and pop hits that have the customers singing along.

The bartender makes his way back over to the till, then turns to Mila. “I’ll have--”

“Four starfuckers and four beers, please!” Sara interrupts, sliding a credit card across the wet metal surface of the bar. The card is black with a thick gold edge, and it catches eyes up and down the bar. Mila raises her eyebrows, then relaxes when the bartender picks it up, the embossed letters of Victor’s name catching the light. 

She hadn’t come out intending to drink much, but if Victor wants to buy a round, she’s not about to stop him. 

When the shots come out, they’re bright green. Mila gets the uneasy feeling that if she spilled one on herself, she’d emerge with stripper-related super powers. 

Victor raises his glass in a toast. “Bottoms up!”

“And tops down,” Yuuri drawls. They all throw back the shots. For something so cloyingly sweet, it’s got a burn that crawls down Mila’s throat and curls up, at home in her chest. She reaches for her beer to wash it down. 

Yuuri finds them a table in the corner, still littered with towers of glasses from the previous occupants, bright-colored liquids congealing at the bottom. They pull up chairs, watching the dancers on the floor while they nurse their beers. Victor quite un-surreptitiously lowers his hand onto Yuuri’s thigh, and Mila’s beer almost winds up in her lungs when Sara responds by sliding her hand around the back of Mila’s neck, playing with the curls that brush her shirt collar.

“So Yuuri,” Sara says, leaning onto the table, “what made you decide to switch from dance to business?”

“Oh, well my parents own a resort…” 

Whatever Yuuri says after that is probably very interesting, but Sara’s nails scrape the back of her neck, and Mila completely whites out. She can feel the icy glass of her beer bottle numbing her fingers, Sara’s hand lingering on her skin, and absolutely nothing else. 

At some point, apparently, Victor gets up. Mila is aware of this only because he comes _back_ with another tray full of candy-flavored shots--pink this time--and four more beers. 

Mila eyes the pink sludge dubiously. “I’m not sure I’m ready for another round right now.”

“Just the shots,” Sara says with a grin. “Then, we dance! It’s what we came out for, after all.”

That doesn’t make Mila want to take the drinks _more_. She’s not nearly buzzed enough to put herself through dancing with Sara right now-- but then, that’s what the shots are for, right?

Determined, Mila stands up and swigs the pink concoction in one gulp. It tastes like the floor of an autumn fair cotton candy stand and feels like fire. She sets the glass back down with a _thunk_. 

“Okay. Let’s do this thing.” 

Yuuri, who is slightly better than Victor at pretending he’s not groping his boyfriend under the table, smiles sweetly. “You guys go ahead. We’ll join in a minute.”

“That wasn’t the deal--” The sound of a shot glass slamming onto the table cuts her off, and then Sara’s hand is in hers again.

“Come on,” she says, tugging Mila toward the dance floor. “I _love_ this song.”

Mila’s not even sure what the song is, but when Sara spins to face her on the dance floor, she’s mouthing along with the words. They nestle into a spot near the center of the floor, well clear of the other groups of dancing, laughing couples and students, and Mila prays for muscle memory to deliver her. She’s a dance _major_ \--how embarrassing would it be if she forgets how to move?

But Sara isn’t making it easy for her. The disco ball may be peeling and cracked, but it’s still spinning away, bouncing rainbow streaks of light through the black of Sara’s hair and making her skin shimmer. She’s devastating, those deep red lips forming the shapes of words Mila can’t really hear over the bass beat. Presumably, she’s dancing, because Sara is dancing with her, still smiling and oblivious to the roil of longing in Mila’s gut. 

Sara reaches for her hand, placing it on her hip, then turns, rolling herself back into Mila’s embrace. Back to front, they sway together. Sara pushes her hair back, turning, exposing the line of her neck, and Mila smells roses. The curve at the juncture of Sara’s jaw and throat calls to her, and she leans in, unable to resist nosing at that spot. She barely holds herself back from biting. 

Then Sara’s pulling away again, back but not far, and they’re wrapped in one another once more, face to face, and if the shape of her neck was temptation then the curve of her lips, so close to Mila’s face already, is original sin. Sara’s fingers twine again around Mila’s neck, curling into her hair, and Mila just breathes-- in.

And leans.

It’s that easy to finally get what she wants, Sara’s lips under hers sticky with waxy lipstick and sugar-rimmed shots. She tastes like watermelon candy. Her lips part, and her fingers clench in Mila’s hair, and she sighs into the kiss, falling headlong into the moment until they’re sealed together, fitted like two halves of a broken locket.

Mila pulls back first and finds herself looking straight into a pair of slitted violet eyes, so dark they’re nearly black in the flashing light of the dance floor. All around them, others are dancing on, oblivious, and when it sinks in for Mila what she’s done, her skin goes cold despite the body heat enveloping her.

She forces a laugh and takes a step back, hand raised to cover her mouth, feeling the tacky smear of borrowed lipstick on her skin. Sara, unfairly, barely looks smudged. Mila wants her to look as ruined as she feels.

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “Sorry, just -- following Victor and Yuuri’s lead, you know? Got to keep up the act.”

She waits for Sara to smile and shake her head, to lean in and laugh and tease like normal, but instead Sara folds her arms across her chest, her expression shuttering. 

“Really? Following _their_ lead?” She nods back over Mila’s shoulder, and Mila turns to look. Victor and Yuuri are still back at the table, heads together and hands intertwined. They may very well have been kissing, but they certainly aren’t interested in what Mila and Sara were up too--they’re far too entwined with each other.

Caught, Mila flounders, searching for a better excuse.

“Stop.” Sara cuts her off before she can even begin. “Just-- stop. We need to talk about all these mixed signals you keep sending.”

“ _I’m_ sending mixed signals?” Mila gapes.

Sara doesn’t relent for a moment, face set and unphased by the fact that they’re shouting in the middle of a dance floor full of strangers. “Yes! You put your head in my lap, but then you pull away when I try to hug you. You flirt back at me over coffee, or play with my hair, or give me these _looks_ , and I think we’re going somewhere, but then--” she throws her hands up, “--nothing!”

Mila sincerely hopes her mouth isn’t hanging open as much as she think it is. “You’re-- You’re interested in me?” Sara stares. “I thought the touching was just some kind of weird twin thing,” Mila mutters. 

At that, Sara laughs, hiding her head in her hands, and for a second Mila thinks she’s said something really offensive and made her cry. But when Sara looks up, she’s smiling again, shaking her head in that way Mila knows means _you’re very stupid but I love you_.

“Mila, I know you’re an only child, so let me make this clear for you: people do _not_ cuddle with their brothers that way.”

“Oh.”

Oh, shit. But if Sara’s been into her for months now, since way before this charade started, then that means-- “Do you want to make out some more?” _Priorities._

Sara’s fond, patient smile turns fierce. “Yes!”

Their noses collide when they reach for each other, too eager, and they laugh into one another’s mouths, too eager. They find a groove quickly enough, though, and by the end of the second kiss, Sara’s lipstick is just as wrecked as Mila had hoped. She slides her thumb over Sara’s lower lip anyway, smearing it more.

Behind her, someone coughs, carefully pitched to be audible over the dance music, and Mila turns to find Victor studiously _not_ looking at them. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, “but Yuuri and I are both pretty worn out from this past week, and we think we might call it a night early. I know the dancing was my idea but--” he shrugs with a sheepish smile, “--turns out, I’m old. I can’t keep up with a bunch of students anymore.”

He’s talking to them, but he’s _looking_ at Yuuri, who is climbing halfway onto the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention to pay. His butt sticks up. He’s on tiptoe. Mila has her suspicions as to why Victor is so “tired,” but she bites her tongue on the comments. 

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Sara coos, taking Mila’s hand as she steps forward. “We can do this another time if you guys need to rest. You go ahead; we’ll get our own cab.”

There’s a round of goodnight hugs, and then Victor and Yuuri depart. As soon as they’re gone, Mila sticks her free hand out to hail a second taxi. It pulls up to the curb with a squeak of brakes, and she pauses, hand on the door.

“Did you want to stay out longer? If you’d rather keep dancing--”

“Are you kidding?” Sara laughs. “Get me home before I push you into that alley and climb you like a pole.”

Mila’s not easily thrown by dirty talk, but her ears are burning. Still, it’s good to know they’re on the same page. She holds the cab door open for Sara and clambers in after her. 

The cab driver has a rosary hanging from his rearview mirror and a photo of his young daughters taped to the glove compartment. He’s singing along to an all Dave Matthews Band satellite radio station that should not exist. It’s the least romantic atmosphere that Mila has ever been forced to endure. Somehow, even the sound of their driver cooing, off-key, to one of the dozens of soft alt-rock songs Mila’s (thankfully) never heard of can’t stop her from wanting to unbuckle her seatbelt and find a new favorite seat on Sara’s thighs.

She settles for holding her hand on the bench between them instead. It’s the longest ten minute drive of Mila’s life. 

When they arrive at the apartment, Sara drops a wad of money into the driver’s hand that he certainly didn’t earn, but Mila’s not about to object when it gets them out of the car faster. They’re in a race to find out who can find her door key the quickest, and Mila hasn’t felt so clumsy since she was nine and fell off the parallel bars in gymnastics in front of everyone.

Sara wins the key battle, so she’s through the door first when they get to the apartment. Mila’s right on her deep red kitten heels, and before the door can even click shut behind her, Sara spins to meet her. She grips the collar of Mila’s vest in both hands, pulling the fabric tight as she presses Mila back, back until her shoulders meet the door, and the flimsy faux wood creaks in protest.

Mila _likes_ this vest--she even paid full price for it--but right now she wouldn’t give a damn if Sara tore it right in half. All that matters is Sara’s mouth on hers, her body soft and firm at once as she presses closer and the door groans again. Mila echoes it when Sara nips her bottom lip. Then, Sara braces herself and, as promised, climbs Mila like a pole.

It doesn’t seem like it should work, but Mila’s been dancing since she learned to walk. She’s a lot stronger than she looks. She grips tight to the underside of Sara’s thighs, braces her back against the door, and holds her up. 

Sara gasps, then growls. “How long can you hold me?” she mouths a trail along the side of Mila’s neck, inspiring shivers. 

“Long enough,” Mila promises. Her hand slips, and Sara’s legs tighten around her waist, so she amends her statement. “Not that long.”

“Long enough,” Sara affirms, buries her hands in Mila’s hair, and kisses her breathless.

Once Mila regains use of her tongue, she clears her throat and sets Sara down carefully, now barefoot on the flat tan carpet, her heels thrown aside. “Bed?” The question comes out breathy and quivering.

Taking Mila’s hand, Sara steers them to Mila’s bedroom a few feet away. Her guidance is more of a demand than a request, and Mila is starting to see a pattern. She catches Sara by the waist before she can reach the bed and flips her around before shoving her back. 

Sara goes down easy, a glint in her eye and a smug smile on her lips, and Mila follows her, eager to replace that grin with a gasp. She’s dimly aware of Sara’s fingers, frantically fumbling at the front of her shirt, but she’s far more invested in the other hand--dragging nails across her scalp, then down her back to grip her hips as Mila mouths her own path south, marking her favorite spots in the arched curve of Sara’s neck. 

There’s probably a zipper at the back of this red dress, but Mila has no interest in stopping long enough to remove clothes right now. The deep scoop neck is enough for Mila to kiss the tops of Sara’s breasts, her hands cupping the underside, thumbs skirting where she knows there must be nipples concealed beneath the padding. She gasps against Sara’s skin, feeling Sara’s hands on her own chest, caressing her through the scratchy black lace of her bra. 

She should have been paying more attention to that hand, after all. Sara's conquered the buttons on Mila's vest and shirt, and now both hang open, baring her to the waist.

Mila bites her lip as Sara’s fingers ghost over her nipple, sending a shivery shockwave from her scalp to the base of her spine. Sitting up, Mila slides her hands up Sara’s legs from the knee, bringing the hem of the dress up with them, the stretchy fabric straining across Sara’s hips.

Seeing that curve of bone and paler skin untouched by sun, Mila can’t resist leaning in to bite another pin on her road map of Sara’s flesh. “I can’t believe I’ve missed so many chances to do this,” she groans when she pulls back, thumbing the purpling spot she left behind. “I’ve been dreaming about your thighs for _months_.”

“ _My_ thighs?” Sara sounds outraged by the concept, but she doesn’t protest when Mila leans back in, kissing those thighs, working her way inward and upward. Sara’s legs fall open, and Mila can feel her muscles quivering beneath her fingers.

She stops just short of her goal, pausing to look up. Sara’s propped up on her elbows, looking down at Mila, her long, dark hair a tattered mess where it spills over her heaving chest. Her lips are parted, as if in surprise, but the look in her eyes is burning. 

“Is this okay?” Mila asks anyway, hovering close enough Sara can probably feel her breathing. 

“Yes!” 

Can’t get any more clear than that. Mila’s tempted now to tease, to draw the process out if Sara’s so eager, but-- she’s eager too. And there will be plenty of time for teasing later.

Sara’s panties are the same red as her dress, trimmed in lace and dark at the center, damp already. Mila strokes her thumb over that spot, feeling the wet, slick slide of the satin beneath her fingers, then rubs. Sara falls back, moaning, her back arching into the touch. 

Such a thin piece of fabric between them, and she’s already so sensitive. Mila hooks her fingers inside, pushing that bit of satin to the side, out of her way, and leans in. 

Mila examines the dark thatch of glistening hair, then glances up again, waiting for Sara to raise her head, to see those purple irises once more. Sara’s eyes are half-lidded, and her mascara is beginning to run. Her lipstick is long gone, kissed into oblivion. She’s gorgeous. 

Mila runs her finger up the center of Sara’s lips, then leans in to taste. 

It’s just as sweet as she’d imagined, hot and slick already beneath her tongue, and she licks up from the center to swirl around Sara’s clit, pressing in. Sweeter still than the flavor is the sound Sara makes, a sharp little, “ah!” Her hands find Mila’s head, nails pressing into her scalp, and Mila bites back the urge to grin. Better to prove herself _before_ being smug. 

She redoubles her efforts, adding her fingers, pressing up into Sara’s heat until she cries out again and again, pulling at Mila’s hair. She arches her back and moans loudly, squirming more when Mila presses down on her hips, then hooks her heels on Mila’s back, her toes curling. 

Mila’s had other lovers, but never one so responsive. It’s hot as hell, especially when she thrusts her tongue into Sara alongside her fingers, and Sara _whines_. Mila stops holding her still, letting Sara roll her hips where she wants them as she fumbles with the zip on her own pants, then shoves her hand inside. 

She moans against Sara’s clit at the sudden relief of touch, then begins to flick her tongue over that spot, dodging Sara’s hips as she whimpers and shakes. Mila can feel the moment Sara starts to cum, her knees tensing against Mila’s ribs, molding her into a new shape. She trembles, kicks, then _shouts_ , loud enough that Mila’s ears are pounding--or maybe that’s the sound of her heart. 

Mila buries her face in Sara’s thigh, biting another memory into being as her fingers work in her jeans, finding her own peak.

Still gasping for breath, Mila crawls up Sara’s body and lets her head fall heavy into Sara’s shoulder, waiting for her aftershocks to ebb. She turns her head and finds Sara’s mouth already waiting for her. This kiss is slower than the others, but thorough. Sara is still eager, chasing her own taste on Mila’s tongue.

When they part, Sara’s lips are curved in a satisfied smile, her eyes half closed. She runs a hand up Mila’s back, beneath her shirt, then tucks a red curl back behind Mila’s ear.

“Again?” she suggests, fingers lingering on Mila’s chin. “Maybe this time with fewer clothes.”

Mila has no objections to this plan. They’ve got a lot of missed opportunities to make up for,

-

Sara is still asleep when Mila wakes the next morning, sprawled across Mila’s soft, rose-colored sheets. It’s a good look on her, especially the way the cotton clings to the curve of her hip and drapes across her chest, one brown nipple peeking out. 

Mila tucks it away, but otherwise resists the urge to touch. She rolls out of bed, stretching with a jaw-straining yawn. Her eyelids still feel heavy, like they want to drift shut again, and she can’t blame them. The morning birds had begun to sing by the time she and Sara actually fell asleep.

But despite the late night, Mila almost always wakes early. Even with classes over, she has a workout to get to, or else Lilia will have her ears when the break ends for falling into bad habits. She gets her teeth brushed and her exercise clothes on, fills her water bottle, and grabs a gym bag. When she sticks her head back into the bedroom, Sara’s still asleep.

She looks like a real life sleeping beauty. Well, aside from the dark, drool-soaked spot on her pillow, but Mila lives in too small of a glass house to throw stones--she’s been told she snores before, and she’s probably just lucky Sara was too worn out to notice last night.

Sara stirs, frowning, hand outstretched toward the other pillow, but then relaxes, falling back into sleep. Mila would rather not wake her, but she’d _also_ gather not have to deal from the fallout if Sara wakes up alone. 

Crossing the room, she dips to kiss Sara’s cheek, hoping for a pleasant enough awakening at least. 

Sara swats at her, but doesn’t land the hit. “Mickey, get _out_ ,” she grumbles, and Mila bites her lip to keep from laughing. Maybe it’s better to leave a note after all.

She erases their grocery list from the white board on the fridge and scribbles out a quick, _Good morning! Gone to gym! Text me when you wake up, xoxo_. She erases the “xo” at the end and rewrites it three times, striving for the exact right number of kisses and hugs to indicate her affections without seeming ridiculous.

Though, if Sara doesn’t know her affections are already ridiculous after last night, Mila must be a _much_ better actress than Madam Baranovskaya believes.

Satisfied with herself, Mila caps the marker and slings her gym bag back over her shoulder, making her way out with perhaps a little swagger. She saw herself in the mirror this morning and can’t be sure which is the bigger tell, her just-got-laid smile or her wildly curly sex hair. 

Either way, she’s humming as she turns back to the door, locking the deadbolt from the outside with her key. 

A click alerts her to the neighbor’s door opening as well, and Victor emerges. He’s wearing a faded band t-shirt and a pair of grey joggers. His hair is rumpled, and his face is still marred by red creases from his pillowcase. He stumbles, chasing after his poodle as she strains the leash trying to greet Mila. 

“Good morning,” Mila chirps. “Did you get some rest last night?”

Victor mumbles in response, eyes narrowed as if half-asleep still. A flush crawls across his nose from cheek to cheek, and he quickly turns away. 

It’s out of character, but not so strange really. The semester is over. Maybe Victor hasn’t had his morning coffee yet.

When Mila rounds the corner to the front door, she finds Victor and the dog lingering just outside as Makkachin sniffs the nearest flower beds. 

“Have a nice walk,” she says, passing, and Victor clears his throat.

“Actually,” he says, and she turns to look. He licks his lips, not meeting her eyes. “Actually, I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“Sure.” Mila’s in a great mood. It’s the best possible time to ask her for a favor.

“Well, could the two of you _please_ try to keep it down in the future?” Victor’s ears are red. He’s still apparently fascinated by the daisies. “I wouldn’t say anything, but we are friends, and it seems our bedrooms share a wall.”

Mila covers her mouth, trying to turn her laugh into a cough, so instead she splutters. “Oh _really_? Do they?” Victor nods, and that almost sets her off again. She pinches the underside of her arm to keep herself from breaking. “Oh dear. Well, we’ll give it a try, but I can’t promise anything. _You_ understand, right?”

The bags under Victor’s eyes are more than enough answer for her. He does understand. He understands her perfectly now. Next time he and Yuuri interrupt her study session, she’ll know exactly what to do--and she doesn’t think Sara will object one bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to twitter in general and especially Emma for periodic cheering and emotional support. I came up with this plot a year ago and started writing in _October_ (I wrote the first bits at Skate America, actually)
> 
> The basic concept (neighbors having loud sex leads to female roommates faking EVEN LOUDER sex as a revenge) is a thing that actually happened to me, but nothing *after* the fake sexing is taken from my life experiences. It's the Drama.


End file.
